


A Romance of Many Dimensions

by Jheselbraum



Series: Demonswap [1]
Category: Flatland - Edwin A. Abbott, Gravity Falls
Genre: AU, Abusive Friendships, Abusive Marriage, Child Abuse, Demonswap AU, Flatland - Freeform, Gen, The Apocalypse, The Axolotl (mentioned), The Henchmaniacs - Freeform, the Nightmare Realm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jheselbraum/pseuds/Jheselbraum
Summary: In a two dimensional world, configuration makes the man. Configuration decides the fate of entire families. So when a well to do polygon gives birth to an irregular son, what else is there to do but hide it?





	1. Prologue: I am not The Author

**Author's Note:**

> I phlbw lloztao Guthbf tb twq vzy njvyw, essy wy md rfovb wa M bbhcor xd cnt igpuis.

Consider a large sheet of paper, laid out on a table. Now, imagine that living upon this paper are entirely flat beings: shapes of nearly every size and color, only capable of seeing their world as a single line, completely unaware of your voyeurism, as they cannot look up and see you, unaware that “up” even exists.

There are many worlds such as this. Some exist on a great sphere, imperceptible to the inhabitants of these flat worlds. Some exist in space, with nothing below or beneath, as the concepts of “below” and “beneath” do not exist. But among these worlds, a certain song and dance, a certain common thread emerges. A thought problem, a social commentary, a dire warning, a creative visual to explain a particularly challenging concept to a group of schoolchildren eager to  _ understand _ ... Call it what you will, the thread exists nonetheless.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before:

There is a two dimensional being, and a three dimensional being. The two dimensional being is made aware of the existence of the many dimensions, thanks in no small part to the actions of the three dimensional being. A grave misfortune befalls the two dimensional being, and the cycle begins anew.

Of course, like all things in the multiverse, the exact events from world to world differ slightly.

Usually, the two dimensional being remains in his flat world after a short vacation to the land of three dimensions.

Sometimes, a two dimensional being will escape their flat world and into one of ours, with far more disastrous consequences than would have befallen him had he stayed. Among three dimensional beings (and those from worlds beyond even that), a single two dimensional being outside of their home dimension could spell Armageddon. Thus, any travel between second and third dimensional planes is forbidden, save for visits from third dimensional beings to the second dimension, usually occurring each millennium. They believe all two dimensional beings dangerous by nature.

I, however, know the truth.

Traditionally, when a great truth regarding a two dimensional world is discovered, it is met with so much hostility that the bearer of such news is silenced, and, in a desperate bid to let their work remain known, these truth bearers turn to written word to preserve their testimonies, in hopes that future generations will be more receptive. I suppose that is what I’m doing now, though if the powers that be think they can control or contain me, they are sorely mistaken.

All I ever wanted was to help a friend.


	2. "Irregular"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Irregular is from his birth scouted by his own parents, derided by his brothers and sisters, neglected by the domestics, scorned and suspected by society, and excluded from all posts of responsibility, trust, and useful activity.” 
> 
> -A. Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fzt: vsjgjog ajmbdqz hz. I fuon iuuru eiucm ji pg disus, moa ilng Y fere edymz.

Filbrick Pines was a pentagon.

Not that this was inherently a bad thing.

It merely meant that his place in life was that of a physician. By Flatland’s standards, I suppose he could be considered a respectable pentagon, perfectly regular in every way, precise in angle and dimensions. Because of this, Flatlander logic dictated that Filbrick was also precise in morals, his social class above the square mathematician yet below the hexagonal aide-de-camp, all because each angle measured exactly 120 degrees.

I can only hope that you never find yourself making the same logical error, that should some pompous figure who gained a modicum of power without earning it never presses you down so far underneath his stickly appendage that you believe such lies.

Anyone on the outside could plainly see that Filbrick was in actuality a despicable and horrible person, among the worst scum his dimension had to offer. But you already knew that.

To a Flatlander, he was a good and just man, an upstanding citizen.

Like all pentagons, he was married to a line of good standing— all women in this dimension are lines, only men have _sides_ , and only women can add a side to any offspring a couple might produce— who went by the name of Martha.

(Interestingly enough, throughout the multiverse, Martha’s name isn’t always Martha. But you already knew that.)

Together, the couple had conceived a child already: a well configured hexagon by the name of Sherman, shortened to Shermie, who was grown and set to marry within a few months of his graduation from university by the time Filbrick and Martha’s second child was on his way.

Filbrick Pines, for all intents and purposes, was a terrible person. But the one thing about his existence that worked out in his family’s favor was his status as a physician.

When Martha went into labor, there was no need to go to the Regular Hospital. Filbrick could take the position of obstetrician and midwife himself, with his son Shermie acting as his assistant, and save himself a hospital trip.

“Push, damn you!”

Overall, he was terrible at it.

“I’m _pushing_ , don’t lose a _degree_!”

However, if Filbrick had any other number of sides, had been a proud member of any other profession, if for any number of reasons Martha’s second son was delivered in the Regular Hospital… Well, it’s safe to say the child wouldn’t have survived.

As an aside: when a woman becomes pregnant in Flatland, their sides do not expand, and the infant’s frame is compressed into a line. Females remain in this line, but the frame of a male springs into place shortly after birth.

“By the Circles themselves!” Filbrick felt his newborn son a second time, just to be sure his suspicions rang true (the figures inhabiting Flatland have a singular eye, which also functions as their mouth, but with the act of coloring one’s sides how one pleases outlawed by the government, and the general poor lighting of Flatland, proper vision is almost impossible). The wailing infant hexagon’s frame was still pliable and soft, like a human infant’s head, but the irregularity could be felt nonetheless.

“We’re ruined,” Filbrick wailed, pinching the infant’s angles too hard in anger, causing the yet unnamed child to cry out in pain. “It’s an _irregular_!”

“You must have made a mistake,” Martha spoke carefully, recalling her carefully maintained pedigree dating back five hundred generations. _How dare he question my family line after all these years!_ “I have no irregular ancestry, only whatever isosceles began the family line eons ago, and Sherman is just fine.”

“Woman, I’m a _physician_!” Filbrick punctuated the sentence with a _SLAP_ , a bold action considering one wrong move and Martha could easily murder everyone in the room _._ “I know an _irregular_ when I feel one!” The harsh force of Filbrick’s voice quelled whatever rage Martha might have unleashed against him. “Your pedigree lied to me, by virtue of either your filthy family or the _fool_ you hired to trace your ancestry!”

An irregular child could set a triangular family back generations, but the family line could recover in time. No lawmakers would restrict the birth of irregular children by soldiers (scalene triangles) workmen (isosceles triangles) and tradesmen (equilateral triangles) if they wanted to maintain sufficient population numbers in the triangular classes. For a pentagon, on the other hand?

Too poor to afford to send the infant to a Neo-Therapeutic Gymnasium (a paltry excuse for a hospital that will be touched upon later) but too affluent to be allowed to continue reproduction in their state, the Head Circles mandated that any individual with more than three sides who gives birth to an irregular child be sterilized, along with applicable members of their family line. Martha, her siblings, and Shermie would never be able to have children. Filbrick himself would have to divorce and remarry if he wanted children, the proof of his family lineage secured in his angles, at least in the eyes of the law. His remaining family would be unharmed, but forever cast in shame and doubt.

“It’s _off_ , every angle is _off_ by a full degree,” Filbrick said. “He has no 120 degree angle— three are 119 degrees and three are 121 degrees— and he has six fingers on each hand!”

“Dad,” Shermie spoke up, gently taking his brother from Filbrick’s hands. “Calm down, his frame’s not set yet—”

“It doesn’t matter, an irregular is lucky to be cured of _one_ malformed angle, let alone _six_ , our family line ends here!” Filbrick dusted off his frame now that the horrendous irregular was free from his grasp.

Shermie stared at the infant, wriggling about in a feeble attempt at exploration. His father was right, there was truly no hope for the child, but perhaps if he thought on it, there could be a solution that could preserve what was left of his family line. Or at least, prevent himself from sterilization. He shivered, cringing at the sight of the deformed creature in his arms. An irregular was truly disgusting. “Maybe we could pass it off as an environmental factor, instead of a genetic one? The family line is stable, it might actually be the truth—”

Sherman was interrupted by a coo from the infant, the hexagon feeling along Sherman’s angles, ever curious about this strange new existence he’d been unwittingly thrust into.

A second aside: Flatland is not a particularly bright or colorful place. Seeing is not particularly easy, and many of the lower classes rely on feeling instead. The square is the first of the family to learn sight recognition, though they’re usually not proficient. Filbrick was the first of the family to learn to recognize any figure from a distance.

Filbrick paused, his bulbous eye blinking between his son’s angles and his wife’s point. “Martha.”

“Dear?”

“Martha, shatter it.”

Sherman felt his limbs grow cold at his father’s command. “Dad, I’ve got another idea. We might still have a chance. We’d have to relocate in a hurry, but—”

“Martha, if you stab it with our point, we’ll be rid of the thing and no one will be any the wiser!” Filbrick overpowered his son, drowning out any attempt Sherman made at addressing the situation reasonably. He grabbed his wife’s hand and pulled her, hard, over to where his son and the irregular stood.

A third, much longer, aside: the frames (or sides) of a male Flatlander are indeed similar in function to human skin, but with a much different consistency. At birth, the body of a Flatlander is much the same as a thick sheet of rubber stretched out over broken glass. An infant is certainly sharp, and if you were to dip your finger into Flatland, an infant could certainly cut you. But this is due to their innards (they lack bones, you see, but their organs are hard and angular), their skin is malleable and fragile and easily torn or bent or pierced. This is what allows a child’s frame to be altered in a Neo-Therapeutic Gymnasium, what allows irregular children (born to incredibly wealthy families, of course) to be redeemed somewhat in the eyes of Flatland society.

Over time, the texture of a male Flatlander’s skin hardens, protecting the organs and forming a razor-sharp shell around the body, like bricks on a house or like the keratin in your fingernails or scales on a snake. If you were to dip your finger into Flatland, an adult male would be able to slice clean through.

The women of Flatland, however, have an inherently tougher skin that does not need to set or firm after birth. A woman’s body closely resembles a needle or a pin, with her rear tapering to a point and her eye taking a more blunt position on the other end. The woman’s body must remain thin and rigid in order to be considered functional. Her body will curve or become pliable only upon severe illness, injury, or death. Despite being so thin that looking a woman directly in the eye is nearly impossible, any woman is sharp enough to shatter any man. However, any woman who attempts such an act runs the risk of shattering themselves. Despite all of this, disputes between men and women often result in a woman committing murder.

Although murdering an infant would pose far less of a risk to a woman than murdering a fully grown man (or worse yet, another woman), what Filbrick had just asked was unthinkable for more than just the obvious reasons.

“How fucking _dare_ you! I would rather throw the family line to the _gutter_ than spend even a _minute_ thinking about that ridiculous idea!” Martha shouted, looking very much like she was about to shatter her husband instead of her child, risks be damned.

“Now hang on just a minute,” Sherman moved between his parents, keeping the squirming, deformed infant away from either of them. “I have a better idea,” he said, keeping his voice even yet engaging, the way the heptagons and octagons at the university spoke during their lectures. “Dad, your plan is a great start but you of all figures should know that a post-mortem physical examination is to be done in such an event. And even _if_ mom survived, she’d still be tried in court and the situation would be moot.”

“Sherman, quit blathering. If you’ve got an idea, spit it out!” Filbrick snapped.

“Tomorrow, tell the hospital that mom became hysterical and miscarried,” Sherman spoke quietly. The occurrence was common enough that it wouldn’t be questioned, though now Sherman wondered how many cases were, in actuality, cover-ups. “I’ll take the child to my home, where it will never be discovered, and no one will be any the wiser.

“...Okay, that’s actually a good idea,” Filbrick said, backing up to give Sherman a wide berth.

“My son the genius, always thinking of his family!” Martha said, feeling the side of Sherman’s eye, an action similar to a human pinching another human’s cheek.

“Take this, son,” Filbrick said, holding out some spare supplies he and Martha had prepared for the baby. “Keep quiet, stick to the back roads, take the long way if you have to. Don’t let yourself be seen.”

“Don’t worry, dad,” Sherman said, brushing up against his father’s side, an action akin to a hug in Flatland. “We’ll be alright.”

And so Sherman stole away into the night, a thick blanket marring his brother’s form and a pacifier muffling his cries. When the winding paths and back alleys finally led him to his modest home, Sherman hid his brother in the woman’s parlor for the night.

A woman’s parlor is a small room with a narrow entrance, typically located on the western side of the house, that only a woman may enter. The purpose for this room is to de-escalate spats between men and women, as an angered woman often turns violent and, well, we’ve already had that aside. The woman’s parlor may be used by any woman in the house, even guests, though only the wealthy can afford to have such a room installed. Sherman was the first of his family to afford one, though, being a bachelor and not wanting the extra space to go to waste until he took a wife, he had modified the room to allow himself access.

“There there, now, stop crying little one,” Shermie babbled at the infant, gently feeling his sides. “Probably in pain from those ghastly angles, poor thing.”

Shermie wrapped the irregular in a blanket, nice and snug, and carefully showed the baby how to feed, as infants don’t always have the concept of ‘the mouth does the same thing that the eye does’ down right away, and everything Shermie knew about irregulars told him that the infant would need a lot of help if it was to survive.

“You’ll need a name, I don’t want to go through the trouble of calling you irregular every time I try to get your attention,” Sherman mumbled, mostly to himself. “I think mom and dad were going to call you… _Ford_.”

…

You might be wondering if there was another hexagon, if Ford had a twin or at the very least a second brother, one slightly younger than him, if only by a few minutes. You might be wondering where this twin is. You might be wondering how Ford would survive without him.

Every world has its differences.

In this world, there is no other child born that night. Ford was the only one.

You might think it cruel. Maybe you wanted to see what role he had to play in all this. I can tell you right now, I’ve seen that world and that role, and it’s _not_ the one you’re used to.

Best you don’t know what would have happened. Best you infer what would have happened for yourself rather than have me tell you.

It wouldn’t matter anyways. Ford would have still wound up in the same situation he found himself in now. He’d still have been hidden away in a parlor, his existence a well-guarded family disgrace.

Whether he had a twin or not.


End file.
